Magical Midlife Madness： A Paranormal Women's Fiction Novel(5)

I stopped dead for a moment, really unclear on what was happening right now. How could I possibly share a roof with this nutter? He’d be unpredictable at best and might end up burying me in the yard at worst.

This might’ve been a terrible, awful idea. Worse than staying with my parents.





Four





I made my way up to the stoop of the neighbor’s door. Two rocking chairs sat on the porch—one heavily used with a neat pile of rocks beside it, the other brand new in appearance.

The polished door knocker on this door was a lovely horse head with a bump on the forehead, like a budding unicorn or something. I used the doorbell instead. Pounding a door knocker seemed more intrusive, somehow. It reminded me of the way police entered a crack house. Not that I would really know.

“I’m comin’, I’m comin’.” The voice was muffled through the door.

I stepped back, giving the owner some space.

The door swung open and a pleasing floral aroma wafted out. An older woman stood in the doorframe, her hair short and white, her back slightly hunched, and her pale blue eyes lined with crow’s feet. Her thin lips curled up at the corners, as though she were smiling about a secret, and her lily-white skin looked baby soft.

“Hi—”

“What in the holy bejesus are you at?” Ms. Murphy demanded, her voice scratchy and coarse and not at all in keeping with her dew-drop appearance.

My eyebrows got lost in my hair line again, trying to decipher the thick Irish brogue.

“What, are ye peddling somethin’?” the woman said into the silence. “Well, sure, you better come in and have some tae.”

“Oh, uh…” I felt the pull of her expectations but didn’t bite. Just needed that key. I’d had tea on the way up and really needed to pee, but it seemed rude to ask to use the bathroom when my new residence was right next door. “I’m the new caretaker. Earl—uh, Mr. Tom sent me.”

“Mr. Tom, me arse.” She pushed out onto the porch, reached down, scooped up a rock, and rushed to the side of the railing closest to the mansion. She cocked her arm, ready to throw.

Mr. Tom still stood where I’d left him, facing us.

“Ye eld bugger, ya!” Ms. Murphy yelled. “Could ye not have let her in yerself? Yer as useless...” She let fly, the rock slicing through the air as though thrown by a prized quarterback.

Mr. Tom took one step back. The rock landed precisely where he’d been standing—the distance incredible, the aim unbelievable, Mr. Tom’s nonchalance about having an old woman throw a rock at him disconcerting. This sort of thing clearly went on all the time.

“It is your job, after all,” Mr. Tom said, and though he was across the street and up the walk, I still somehow heard him.

So did she.

“It’s my job da feck,” Ms. Murphy said. Or so I thought. I couldn’t quite make out the last couple of words. “Well, now I’ve got her. And I’ll be tellin’ her all about the real goings on over there. Just you wait, ye gobshite.” She turned and stomped into her house. “Well?” She turned back. “Will ye have a cuppa tae? Ye will, ye will. Come on. I’ll put the kettle on.”

Her expectations won out. Hard to say no to a retreating backside.

The spacious inside was wholesome and homey, with pictures of green fields laden with cows on walls, little knickknacks on shelves, and a frightening number of slightly off doilies. They looked to have been handmade by someone who both didn’t know how to crochet and couldn’t see very well.

“Now,” Ms. Murphy said in a singsong kind of voice, pointing at the small round table in the kitchen before heading to a bright red electric kettle sitting on the counter. “So you’re goin’ ta take the post, then?”

“The caretaker job,” I said lamely, still unpacking what she’d said. “I have the caretaker job. Just for a while.”

“Well. Ol’ Edgar will be excited for that. He hates Earl, so he does. Absolutely can’t stand the man. I think he does, at any rate. I can’t listen to him for long. That Edgar would rot the ears off ye, so he would. Sure, you’re half deaf just standing near ’em, that’s how bad he is. Pure thick-headed, too. Mean as a badger when he wants ta be. Ah well…” She pulled down a little milk jug and put a slosh of milk into it, then proceeded to grab a silver teapot and drop one tea bag inside. Waste not, want not, I supposed. She stopped in her preparations and turned back. “Will ye have a sandwich, ye will?”

“Oh no, thanks. No, that’s okay,” I said, remembering the warning and trying to ignore my aching stomach.

“As sure, go on.”

I smiled politely. “That’s okay, honest. I’m fine, I just—”

“Go on. You will. Just a wee bite…”

I put up my hand and forced a polite laugh. “No, it’s okay. Thank you for asking.”

“Go on.”

“No, it’s—”

“Go on.”

“No, I—”

“As sure, you might as well.” She headed to the fridge.

My stomach growled and the old woman must’ve heard it because she nodded.

“Sorry, I didn’t get your name…” I asked, slinging my purse around my knee.

“Niamh.”

I leaned forward. “Neve?”

“N-i-a-m-h,” she spelled. “Niamh.”

“Ne-ahve.”

“Close enough.” She’d taken various items out of the fridge and started assembling sandwiches. When the electric kettle clicked off, Niamh poured the hot water into the metal teapot and dropped the lid. She carried everything to the table as I half rose.

“Can I help with anything?” I asked.

“No, no, not at’all. Sit, sit.” She pushed the plate of four sandwiches my way, all of them consisting of bread, ham, cheese, and a smear of butter. They hadn’t even been cut in half.

Once the tea had been poured, and doctored with milk and a little sugar, Niamh finally shifted her focus back to me.

“So. Ye’ve come to watch the house, have ye? Why is that, now?”

“I heard there was an opening and decided I might like…” My words died within Niamh’s shaking head. “What’s the matter?”

“There’s no point making up stories. What’s the real reason?” Niamh asked.

The wind went out of my sails and I sighed as I picked up a sandwich. “I got a divorce and couldn’t stomach living with my parents for more than a couple of days. In a nutshell. I remembered this house from my childhood, and when my friend mentioned her aunt needed a caretaker, voilà. Here I am, ready for a new experience and maybe a little adventure.”

“A little adventure, is it? Hmm. You are in charge of your own fate, I suppose.”

“Aren’t we all?”

“Of course we’re not, what are ye on about?” She huffed. “Some people are like tumbleweeds—go where the wind shoves them. Not me, I’ve always gone my own way. Until I got here. Now I do absolutely nah-thin’. I hang around all day. Have a wee drinkie at night. It suits me right down to the ground for now. Couldn’t be happier.”

“That’s good. Nice area, huh?”

“Pure dumpster fire, this place.”

I smiled at the joke, then realized it wasn’t a joke and looked down at my dry sandwich.

“Not just anyone can be a caretaker in that old place, ye know,” Niamh said. “Takes a special person.”

“Oh yeah? How come?”

“The house is prickly. Those who serve it are prickly.”

Clearly she didn’t like Mr. Tom any more than he liked her.

“It’s just for a while, until I get my bearings,” I assured her. “I let Diana know to tell her aunt.”

“Yes, yes, I heard. But Diana doesn’t fully understand the forces at work here. She’s that tumbleweed I was on about. Blithely rolling along. You’re different, you are. You’re fighting against the current now. It’s time.”

The small hairs stood up on the back of my neck and along my arms. I swallowed down my bite and took a deep breath, not sure why.

“The house welcomed you last time you were there, isn’t that right?” she asked me, and it felt like a hush blanketed our conversation.

My eyebrows drifted upward of their own accord.

“Diana’s aunt thought Diana might grow accustomed to that house, but no such luck, no. Too timid, if you ask me. Clever, but no real…” She fisted her hand. “Independence of thought. Diana is happy to follow the pack, like I said. She’s not cut out to lead.”

The conversation had lost me. I nodded noncommittally and hurried up with the sandwich.

Niamh took a sip of her tea. “Peggy doesn’t have any children, you know. That’s Diana’s auntie. The house didn’t choose her, either. Soul crushing, that. The house always goes to a female heir, and it should’ve been Peggy. Didn’t fit in around here as well as she’d hoped. Almost a plain Jane. She took it hard. Still, a few million in the bank isn’t so bad, is it? She married well and made sure he died off quickly.” Niamh pursed her lips. “She’s got a nice little life now. Money might not buy happiness, but it sure helps with an escape route.”